


Sea Change

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 04, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-09
Updated: 2008-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag for "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester." Dean knows how he's supposed to feel. It's just that he's never had much choice where Sam's concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Change

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Giandujakiss for the beta.

On some level—the gut level that came from living his whole life with one imperative written strong and sure through every bone of his body—Dean knew before he got to Sam what he was going to find. He'd pretty much known since the moment Sam left him downstairs. Still, when he finally did round the corner, when he finally did lay eyes on his brother, what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Sam shouldn't have seen him, shouldn't have shifted his focus to Dean while he had that ugly-ass son of a bitch snarling in his face, but he did it anyway. His head came up, eyes locking with Dean's like they'd done a thousand times before in the heat of a fight, connecting with the same inevitable gravity Dean had always felt, needle to magnet, circuit closing faster than thought. Dean froze, hair lifting on his arms and sudden cold blooming in the pit of his stomach. His heart tripped, instinct to reach for a weapon slamming up against the certainty that if he did, Sam's precarious control would slip.

_Please, _Sam's look said. Dean got that loud and clear, so much so that it felt like Sam put the word in his head. _Please, don't—_

And apparently it was a day for doing what Sam wanted, because Dean stayed where he was, the seconds slowing to a crawl. Sam's power leapt and jittered electric in the air until finally Sam's eyes broke away from his, then it steadied, bore down, and Sam started to tremble with the effort it cost him.

Samhain gave a raw cry of rage that set Dean's nerves on edge, but still Sam held him off. Dean knew with absolute certainty that it didn't matter how badass the demon thought he was, Sam was going to win this. He'd never doubted it, he realized, watching his little brother stand there and embrace the darkness he carried inside of him. Sam had never backed down an inch in his life, not even with Dad, and Dean had always admired him for that. Even when he was cursing Sam a blue streak and feeling like Sam did it just to drive him batshit crazy, Dean loved that infuriating mule-headedness that made Sam who he was. It was no different now, and why that should have surprised him, he didn't know.

"Come on," Dean said under his breath, barely aware he said it aloud. _Come on, Sammy. Kill that son of a bitch._

Sam clutched his head then, shuddering with the strain. Dean felt his heart miss a beat, then start pounding slow and heavy in his ears. His hands flexed; he didn't have a prayer of doing real damage, but for a second he thought about it anyway—thought about running at them and taking the demon down with his bare hands if he had to.

The thought barely had time to form before the rotten-egg smell of sulfur hit him in the face and black demon-smoke burst from the dead host's mouth, curling around its twitching body. The host dropped, its strings cut; just like in the warehouse, the smoke hovered, then sank into the floor and dissipated in a sizzle of brimstone that made Dean choke back a wave of nausea and lose a few seconds of time, the edges of his vision closing in.

The harsh sound of Sam's gasping breaths broke him out of it, and Dean finally made himself look at his brother.

A bright streak of crimson ran down Sam's face. He was pale save for two spots of color high on his cheekbones, but he stood over the body like a soldier on the field of battle, tall and straight, and he met Dean's eyes without flinching. Only the trembling of his mouth gave him away. It made Dean want to go to him, to wipe away the blood like when Sam was four and split his lip falling on the steps in front of their apartment. It made him want to find a weapon and plant himself in front of Sam and fight off any son of a bitch who tried to tell him there was something wrong with him, something evil that needed killing, because screw that. Sam killed demons. And he was still Sam, still Dean's little brother, still as stubborn, thick-headed, and stupid as ever—still as strong and good, still the best thing Dean had ever done.

"Dean," Sam said, rough, halfway between a plea and a warning. And before Dean could move, or get an answer past his throat, one of Sam's knees gave out on him and he went down like a felled tree. Dean moved before Sam hit the floor. It was like Cold Oak all over again, no thought involved, just the need to catch Sam and his body reacting before he knew what was happening.

He was slow this time. Sam caught himself on the tile, fingers splayed, and Dean could see the pain in his face, the way the muscles around his eyes and mouth drew taut in reaction. Dean reached him at a crouch and Sam swayed, shuddered into Dean like he could hide from the pain.

This, Dean knew. He'd felt Sam lean into him like that half a dozen times, back when the visions were getting stronger. Felt like a steel bar jammed through his skull, Sam had said during one of the worst ones. Like he wanted to claw his own eyes out. It didn't help Dean much, knowing what was happening—Sam had never bled before, had never looked quite this bad, or felt this hot to the touch.

"Okay, it's okay Sammy, I gotcha. It's gonna be okay." He grabbed hold of Sam by the back of the neck, pulled him away from the blood and ash and the body on the floor and laid his other hand over Sam's eyes. "I gotcha."

Sam gasped a soft, grateful sound of relief as Dean's palm soothed him and blocked the light out. He fumbled a hand against Dean's chest, grabbed hold of Dean's shirt to steady himself. Dean closed his eyes and held him close for a second, bowing his head against Sam's and thinking, goddammit. Like they didn't have enough problems.

They couldn't stay here. Cops would be here any minute, and the fire was still burning downstairs, the air getting thicker.

"Okay, hey, stay with me, dude. 'Cause we gotta get you out of here, and if I gotta carry you? It's gonna get ugly." Dean shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, tried to get a look at Sam's face. The bleeding had slowed; he had his lips pressed tight together and was trying to breathe through his nose in the way Dean knew first-hand meant he was fighting the pain. That was a good thing. It meant Sam was still with him, falling back on his own coping mechanisms. "You with me?" he asked, rubbing his thumb against the throbbing vein at Sam's temple.

Sam swallowed like he was fighting nausea of his own, but he nodded. Dean felt him gather himself. Dean shifted his shoulder under Sam's weight, got an arm around his back. He kept his hand pressed tight against Sam's eyes; he could feel wet heat against his fingers, and emotion pressed close at his throat, heat of his own burning there. "Okay, come on," he said gruffly. "Let's do this."

For somebody who didn't carry an ounce of spare fat on him, Sam weighed a goddamn ton. It wasn't the first time Dean'd had the thought, but it didn't matter any more now than it had any of the other times he'd had to carry or drag Sam to safety. As long as there was breath in his body, he'd be able to do this, plant himself strong and steady under Sam's weight and get them moving the direction they needed to go.

His eyes fell on a glint of metal against the wall. "Hang on," he grunted, and maneuvered them to where it lay. "Ruby's knife. I gotta grab it." He felt Sam's nod, managed to brace Sam against him and snag it.

Dean stuck the naked blade in his bag and grabbed on to Sam again, one foot in front of the other through the thickening smoke until they were at the heavy mausoleum doors, then out into the crisp October night. He coughed once and wiped a hand over the back of his mouth, tasting sulfur and ash; the wail of sirens reached him, and he cursed under his breath. The car looked like it was about a million miles away.

"It's okay," Sam managed, slurring the words in a way Dean didn't like. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, I can see that," Dean said. "You look terrific." He looked like death warmed over, and Dean could feel the heat coming off him, the way he was shivering in the cool air.

"Go. I can make it."

Dean wasn't sure Sam's judgment could be trusted on that point, but the sirens were getting closer, and he didn't have a whole lot of options. If he could just get them somewhere safe, he could deal with the rest of it. One thing at a time.

They made it to the car, Dean steering for both of them and Sam hanging on like Dean was some kind of lifeline, hand fisted in Dean's jacket in a way that told Dean how bad it was; he couldn't remember the last time Sam had let himself lean on Dean, or anyone, in any way that mattered. Dean got him in the car and gave him a once-over.

Sam's face was flushed now, fever-hot save for the pale strain around his eyes and mouth, but the bleeding had stopped. Dean laid a hand against Sam's forehead and pushed his hair back. Sam started and looked at him, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in surprise.

Dean hesitated, torn between wanting to clean the blood off Sam's face and wanting to grab hold of him, shake some sense into him. He let his hand fall, embarrassed. Most of all, what he wanted was to undo every fucked up thing that had ever happened in their lives so that he never had to see Sam look like he did right this second, the lines of his face drawn stark in the moonlight, like somewhere along the line he'd fallen off the edge of the world and forgotten the way back.

For some reason, he found himself thinking of their dad. Wondering what he'd say. What he'd feel, watching Sam exorcise a high level demon without touching it, no blessed knife or holy water or a single word of Latin, just the demon-fueled power of his mind. The power their mom had died for. Dean knew the answer. It would have killed him, and he'd never have been able to look at Sam the same again.

Sam swallowed, his eyes shimmering with sudden brightness. "Dean—"

"Save it," Dean ordered. Then, more gently, "Try not to puke in my car."

The sound Sam made was more a choked sob than a laugh, but Dean figured it was the best he was gonna get. He leaned in and let his hand rest for a second on Sam's shoulder, squeezed, then straightened up and shut the door.

He didn't turn on the lights, didn't step on the brakes as he got them the hell out of there. When the flashing blue lights had receded to darkness in the rear view, he let himself breathe again and turned his attention to worrying about the bigger problems at hand.

~ * ~

It would have been better to leave town, but in the end, Dean balanced his paranoia against his need to go to ground with Sam and went back to the same motel. If the cops were looking for a black vintage Chevy, it wouldn't take them long to check every motel in a twenty mile radius. He'd just have to hope none of the kids had stopped long enough to notice an unfamiliar car.

They pulled in to the mostly-empty parking lot. Dean turned off the engine. In the silence that fell, a gray weariness settled over him, and he wanted nothing more than to go inside and faceplant for at least twelve hours. Even the promise of revisiting the freak show inside his head for the umpteenth time wasn't enough to turn him off the idea.

He glanced over at Sam, who was slumped against the passenger door, hand over his eyes and forehead pressed against the glass. Dean sure as hell had not missed this. It was worse, somehow, than when Sam got hurt in a fight; it made Dean feel helpless in a way that not much else could. Stitches, even a bullet in the shoulder, he could handle. This demonic psychic crap scared him right down to the bone, and it didn't help that Sam knew it and either tried to hide it from him or threw it in his face, depending on the prevailing weather conditions.

If it was bad enough that Sam couldn't do either, Dean figured it warranted emergency response. Their version of it, at least.

"Sam, look at me."

Sam turned his head only as much as absolutely necessary. He swallowed with effort and did as Dean asked, then straightened as he realized where they were. "We can't stay here," he said, and Dean took some reassurance from the fact that he wasn't slurring as much, that he was aware enough to realize coming back here was a bad idea.

"Yeah, well, you let me worry about that. I just want to know, on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it you're gonna pass out on me between here and the room?"

Sam gave a soft, muffled laugh that sounded about as sorry as he looked. "Pass out? Probably not. Throw up, maybe."

"Awesome. I can't wait."

Sam let Dean help him inside without protest, which Dean took as a sign that he'd done the right thing, coming here. Sam barely tolerated anyone in his personal space these days, maybe Dean least of all, and Dean might pretend to be oblivious but that didn't mean he was. It just made it easier to pretend Sam didn't see right through him if he kept up his own smoke screens.

"Dean," Sam said when they made it to the bed.

"Yeah?" Sam was still hot to the touch, and Dean's mind was on the first-aid kit, trying to remember what they had in there for fever. Pain pills had never done much for Sam's vision-headaches, but—

Sam's hand found his forearm, closed around it in a loose hold, and Dean went still at the unexpected touch. "I thought you'd be pissed," Sam said. He watched Dean's face, his eyes a pale gleam in the shadows of the room. It hit Dean belatedly that he'd had his hands on Sam more in the past hour than he had in over a year, that Sam was stretched out beneath him, the heat of his body radiating through the layers of their clothes, their faces too close in the dark. Dean's heart started to pound dully, blood rushing in his ears. Sam's thumb rested against the vein in his arm and Dean wondered if he could feel it.

He let go, but Sam didn't. Dean's legs felt shaky and he wanted to sit down on the edge of the bed. He resisted the urge and said, voice rough, "Who says I'm not?"

The emotion in Sam's face deepened, not the closed-off, angry defensiveness Dean half-expected, but understanding.

"I wouldn't blame you," he whispered. His hand fell at last.

Dean felt the imprint of it against his skin, too vivid. He had to fight the sudden swell of feeling, his own anger and fear and the ache of wanting things he couldn't have all tangled up with one another. What was wrong with him? He knew better. They both did, dammit.

"Don't be stupid," he said shortly, and it was meant as much for himself as it was for Sam. He moved away before he could screw things up worse than he already had. "Just 'cause I'm pissed at you don't mean I like seeing you hurt. Even if you did do this to yourself."

Sam made a soft sound, the ghost of a laugh. "Yeah."

Dean found the Vicodin. Six tablets left, and acetaminophen in them like he'd remembered. A couple of those would knock him out, at least. He risked a glance at Sam on his way to the bathroom for water; Sam had thrown an arm over his eyes, but he seemed to be breathing easier now that he was horizontal in a dark room. Thank God for that.

Thank God. Dean grimaced. God, who'd sent frigging angels down to raise him from Perdition so he could stop Sam from doing what he'd done tonight. Problem was, Dean was starting to think Sam might be right about using his powers for good. They and at least twelve hundred civilians were still breathing because of it.

"Hey," he said, more gently than he meant to. Sam let his arm fall, let Dean put two of the pills into his hand and help him to sit up. Hitching one hip on the bed, Dean could feel him trembling, but Sam was doing a halfway decent job of suppressing it. He got the pills down and half a cup of water before it got worse and he shook his head, sinking back onto the pillows.

"Cold in here," he complained.

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't think so if you weren't trying so hard to cook your own brains, dumb-ass. Here, this'll help." Dean pressed a cool wet cloth against Sam's eyes, and Sam gave a deep, heartfelt sound of pure relief, the choked-off groan of pleasure resonating in Dean on levels he didn't want to think about. "My point exactly," he said, trying to keep it light. "Better?"

"God, yes," Sam answered, so grateful and unguarded that it slipped in under Dean's shoddy defenses, made his chest hurt with a sharp ache. When he wiped the blood off Sam's face, then laid the washcloth against the back of Sam's neck, Sam threw an arm across Dean's thighs and curled into him, practically into his lap.

Dean meant to get up. He did. He'd meant to get the blankets from the other bed and tuck them around Sam, then sit watch over him until the pills and exhaustion wore him out. But it undid him in ways he couldn't fight, feeling Sam ragged and shivering against him, the heat of his skin and the brimstone smell of him, vulnerable and dangerous at the same time.

"Sam—"

His fingers slipped into Sam's hair and wound tight; Sam was still burning up. It was the fever that had gone to his head. The fever and the pain—it made him grabby and emotional, and Dean knew it was possible to get high from endorphins, if you hurt bad enough.

He felt his brother tense. "Please," Sam said, and it sounded like it hurt him to say. The last time Sam had begged him like that, Dean had promised to put a bullet in his head. Now he turned his face into Dean's lap and, Christ, Dean could feel the heat of his breath, sudden and intimate. "Dean, please, just—"

Shivers rushed between Dean's legs and he felt himself get hard. Inescapable. "Sam, Jesus." He bent his head, curling over Sam's shoulders with a sick, sudden want aching through him. So long. More than a year ago, and they'd both agreed it couldn't happen again—but that was before. They were both damned, now. Nothing left to lose.

"I missed you," Sam said, rocking his head against Dean's thigh. His fist knotted in Dean's shirt, held him close. "I missed you so fucking much, and I can't— I don't even—"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean heard himself say. "I'm right here."

Sam gave a deep, gasping sob that made Dean's stomach knot up. Dean had started to think neither one of them would ever cry again after this last year, but here they were, Sam clutching at him like he was gonna vanish any second, and Dean didn't have it in him to do anything but hold on, climb on the bed with him and pull him close.

"Hey, shh. You gotta calm down, okay?" It was the pain as much as anything, Dean knew that, but it didn't help much when Sam choked on another sob and buried his face in Dean's neck, hot tears washing over Dean's skin and slipping under his shirt collar. Shit. He stroked Sam's head, feeling the too-warm, steady throb of his pulse. "Okay. Okay. I gotcha."

This was the bad idea to end all bad ideas, but no part of Dean was proof against Sam in this kind of desperate straits. He kept one hand in Sam's hair, trying to soothe him, and reached over him to pull the covers around him. "We're okay," he murmured into Sam's hair like he was four. "We're fine. We're good. Nothing's gonna happen long as I'm here." The nonsense words came back to him without thought. They didn't change the fact that the kid he'd once been able to carry in his arms now pressed full-length against him, body burning with heat and rousing every unfraternal feeling Dean had.

He wasn't the only one. Sam's erection lay heavy and solid between Dean's legs, hot and close with his own, and arousal thrummed through him despite his best efforts to will it away. He was lying through his teeth: they were screwed. They were so screwed. And right then, he didn't even care.

As if he sensed Dean's surrender, Sam sought Dean's mouth with his, blind in the dark but not letting that stop him. The jolt of need ran through Dean like a fault line shifting. It should have been about comfort more than sex, about Sam needing a safe shore to break against, but this, they hadn't done before. This was new, and if Dean had ever had any defenses worth a damn against Sam, they deserted him now. Sam's mouth was as hot as the rest of him, and he kissed like he did everything else, with single-minded focus and an intensity that made the bottom drop out of Dean's stomach.

Sam broke away and gasped against Dean's lips, a soft, desperate sound; Dean sought his mouth again, too hungry for it to wait. Christ, so good. So fucking good, and he'd tried to pretend it wouldn't be like this, but underneath he'd known the truth.

Sam shuddered against him. "God, Dean," he murmured, licking and biting at his jaw, mouth hot against Dean's pulse and then messy and slick against his lips again, tongue sliding deep. Dean's breath hitched as he tried simultaneously to suck on it and get air. His hands were in Sam's hair, and he needed— He pushed his thigh between Sam's and oh, fuck. Right there.

Sam answered by shoving harder against him, his cock a rigid pressure against Dean's, rubbing rough over Dean's belly. Dean rode against it, a rush of precome slipping in his jeans and blood heavy with need, a dull throb driving him on. Sam tasted like salt, and fire, and maybe they should have done this a long time ago, because he could feel how bad Sam wanted it and Dean was right there with him.

Sam made another sound halfway between pleasure and desperation. Dean swallowed it, licked it off of Sam's tongue and fed it back to him and then they were rutting against each other, the friction and heat too much to resist. Sam had hold of him and was driving their hips together exactly the way Dean needed him to, slow and steady, cock dragging over Dean's and the thick, sweet pleasure building unbearably in Dean's gut with every thrust. The rough, wet scrape of his jeans against Sam's just made it better.

"Like that," Dean managed, panting now, words slipping out between their wet mouths. "Don't stop. Don't—"

Sam didn't; he jerked against Dean with a cry, pulsing wet heat between them and Dean clutched at Sam's head, held him fast and groaned into his mouth, shuddering and licking as much of Sam's tongue as he could while his orgasm took him, whole body engaged in the act of coming, a mindless pleasure that he thought might kill him.

For what felt like a long time, he knew nothing but the close, sweaty heat of the two of them in the dark. Aftershocks followed, almost as intense as the act itself; Dean wanted to pull away from Sam out of a deep and desperate sense of self-preservation, but they fit together too closely to easily part. Sam's legs and arms were tangled with his. Sam's face tucked into Dean's neck and his hands wound into the back of Dean's shirt. Their chests heaved together as they tried to catch their breath, and Dean's body insisted that staying where he was would pretty much be the best idea ever.

Sam's fever had broken, he realized, feeling the relief in Sam's body and the sweaty tangle of his hair between Dean's fingers. A breathless laugh tried to find its way out of him. He wondered whether he could convince himself this had been medicinal.

"What?" Sam asked, still short-winded, like he'd run a four-minute mile.

Dean's nose itched. He rubbed it against Sam's shoulder, then huffed out a sigh. "Nothin'. Just, us."

He felt Sam nod. For the first time, Dean noticed he was too close to the edge of the bed, but Sam had wrapped himself around him and showed no sign of letting him move more than an inch or two, never mind falling.

"Pretty much," Sam murmured, like Dean had asked him a question.

They fell asleep like that, still dressed, still smelling like smoke and sweat and spunk and too worn out to care.

~ * ~

"Dean. _Dean._ Hey."

Dean woke with a jolt, a strangled cry lodged in his throat. It was only the force of habit that kept it in, childhood training in keeping quiet because he was too old for nightmares, too old to be scared of the dark, don't wake Sammy. For long seconds, he stared at the stained ceiling and saw shapes flickering at the edges of his vision. He listened to his heart beat fast and thready against his breastbone, uncertain where he was or whether the screams echoing in his head were his own.

Slowly, reality seeped in. He was in a bed, in a motel, gray morning light and the smell of cold rain washing in through the open door. Sam stood silhouetted there, two cups of coffee in his hands; he kicked the door shut and came in, setting one of them down on the night stand. "You all right?"

Dean swallowed. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face. His heart rate subsided from panic to its aftermath, and he got himself under control with effort. "Yeah," he managed, gruff. "Time is it?"

"Almost seven." Sam turned on the bedside lamp and Dean recoiled, squinting his eyes shut for a second before cracking one of them open to glare at him.

"You suck."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, smirking and unrepentant. He sat on the opposite bed and took the lid off his coffee, sipping at it. He was clean-shaven and smelled like shampoo and the rain he'd brought in with him; Dean shifted and felt how truly stiff and disgusting his clothes were, and the night before came back with a vengeance. Sam laughed at the face he made, and Dean shot him a death-glare, then sat up and reached for the coffee.

"I officially hate you," he announced. He took a sip, then got a whiff of himself and grimaced. "Also, there better be hot water, or I'm leaving you as a tip for the maid."

As exit lines went, it wasn't his worst. He shoved his way out of bed and made it into the bathroom without Sam stopping him, and counted that a victory; it was way too early to have to face Sam and one of his heart to hearts—or worse, to have to deal with the whole demon-child-of-the-apocalypse thing. In the cold light of day, Dean felt wholly inclined to pretend like none of it had ever happened, at least for the time being. Sam was the same stubborn bitch he'd always been, and it wasn't like Dean thought he could avoid any of it for long, but a few hours didn't seem too much to ask.

He was in the shower, eyes squinted shut and soap all over him, when the bathroom door opened, bringing with it a wash of cold air and the squeak of Sam's boots on the linoleum. Dean let out an exasperated breath. Apparently, it was too much to ask.

Sam shut the door. Dean heard the toilet lid creak as Sam sat down on it, and he sighed and leaned under the water, rinsing soap out of his eyes. He stuck his face out from the curtain and gave his pain-in-the-ass brother a wet glare.

"There's this great concept, you know, it's called personal space? Maybe you've heard of it."

Sam gave him a look. "Funny, Dean. 'Cause we don't have boundary issues as it is."

Dean scowled. "What's your point?" He retreated back inside the shower and ducked his head under the spray, squirted shampoo into his hand.

"Look, I just—"

Dean stopped with his hand half-raised, rivulets of water running down his neck.

"If I could change things, I would, but I can't."

Dean closed his eyes. Unconsciously, he made a fist and leaned on the wall. "Yeah, well. That makes two of us."

For a long minute, Sam didn't say anything. Dean's skin prickled with the sudden full-body memory of the night before, the way Sam had held on to him like the world would end before he'd let go. Dean didn't know how to deal with that. They'd gone on pretending like everything was fine, everything was like it was before, Winchesters against the world, but he hadn't really believed it until last night. He thought maybe Sam hadn't, either.

"We'll figure it out," he said, unable to stop himself. If he said it enough times, maybe it would even come true. "This ain't over, Sam. We still got a shot to make a difference, or why else are we still here?"

Sam let out a breath. "Yeah. You're right."

Dean held himself still; a part of him wanted to say more, to do something monumentally stupid like get out of the shower and drag Sam back to bed and say the hell with the world for the next twenty-four hours or so. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Castiel making one of his surprise appearances while he and Sam were busy inventing new definitions of sin.

He tried to put thoughts of angels out of his head. "So, can I take my shower, now?" he asked, bouncing his knuckles against the tile.

Sam huffed a laugh. "Okay. I'll see what I can find on the radar."

He left, and Dean stood there for a minute, letting the water hit him in the chest, letting it get cool while he leaned his forehead on his fist and made himself breathe.


End file.
